The Aftermath
by stayalittlewhile
Summary: Just a oneshot my friend inspired me to write. Post-Rechienbach.


A blue satin robe was draped over his shoulders and he clutched to his knees so he was encircled by the slick fabric. He was curled up in his own chair opposite of the chair that was long collecting dust. He'd made fruitless attempts before to sit in that specific chair but to no avail. Instead, he took a certain fondness to imagining the detective sulking about the flat before residing in the chair. The robe wrapped around him wasn't his either, it belonged to the same owner as the neglected chair. But today was different. It'd been three years to the day. Three years since the man's best friend had insisted that their time spent together was a lie. Three years since the fatal fall. The army doctor cringed at the thought, adjusting himself further into the robe and squeezing his eyes shut. The only movement he'd done today involved blocking himself from others. Locking the door from and barely calling her off when she would knock. Kept his phone on him, but on silent for no one deemed important. Sarah gave him the day off claiming that he wasn't needed but he knew that was not the case. Too much time was spent faking smiles and acting okay when everyone knew it was only fiction. They treated John delicately which made him even more upset. Three years has pasted, he should be over it or have some sort of closure but that wasn't the case. He felt as if he was too tired to go out but sleep barely came due to the returned nightmares. The sounds of guns and screams was replaced with different deaths in which John couldn't stop, only watch. He remembers the first, and only, time he had a nightmare in the care of his flatmate. It was the first night John slept in the flat and he remembers having that recurring war flashback. Instead of waking up alone, he woke up to a gentle but firm hand on his good shoulder. Sherlock was sitting with his feet over the side of the bed claiming he heard John screaming and rushed up as soon as he could. John stared up at his new flatmate, held back the tears brimming in his eyes, and quickly assured him that he'd just had a bad dream and it was nothing to worry about. At the time, he thought Sherlock believed him but looking back on it he's not quite sure. John smiled weakly at the memory, tears starting to sting his eyes but he blinked them back and pulled out his phone. Ever since that day, he has been sending one sided text messages to Sherlock's phone. They varied from every day updates to the things John missed. Sometimes a bit of both, like when he met a woman named Mary. John remembers clearly what he sent, _Met a nice girl today. She doesn't compare to you in the slightest. JW_

Or when he first started sleeping in Sherlock's bed, _Your bed is starting to smell like me. I hate it. JW_

Today felt like one of those moping days. Opening a new message to Sherlock, he watched the small black line blink at the top of the page. John took a deep breath and wrote a text.

_The flat's very quiet without you. Call me crazy but I might just miss the thumbs in the fridge. JW_

John chuckled darkly at the text he just sent, not knowing if he was going to cry or not. Before he has figured it out, tears were spilling over his bottom lashes and he used the back of his hand to whip them away. He typed another text through the tears.

_I wonder if I actually believe you'll reply to these texts. You've been dead for three years. JW_

There was the sad John clawing its way through. Once it emerged, there was no stopping it. Violent sobs shook his entire body and he held his breath just long enough to send a text.

_Please come home, Sherlock. I need you with me. JW_

Once the text was sent, he locked the screen and let the phone slip to the floor, face up. John dug his face into his knees and clung to the robe making sure it was covering his whole body. Then he let go, gross sobbing into the fabric of his pants. His back bobbed up and down from the heaving and he dug his nails into his thighs. He stayed like his for quite a bit before he looked up from his knees and wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve. Suddenly, the disregarded phone's screen lit up but the words were blurred from the tears. Before he could finish clearing his eyes, the screen went back to black. John's hand shook as he reached down for the phone and opened the message.

_John, tell Mrs. Hudson to put the kettle on. SH_


End file.
